


rooftop blues

by erzi



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: M/M, lotta is there for like three paragraphs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 18:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: The balcony is in the next room over. As easily as he knows how to get to where the Otus siblings live, he knows the layout of the apartment.He sees Jean, his back to him, sitting on a blanket and wrapped in another. Nino suddenly stops before the glass door, hand poised to open it. He takes in the scene.





	rooftop blues

Even if he were to be blindfolded and spun around five times, Nino would find his way to the Otus' building. He wouldn't need sight to course through the crowds and streets of Badon when he has his ears to tell him when the traffic increases at the heart of downtown, and his nose to pick up the freshly-made bread from the nearby bakery, and his feet to sense when the sidewalks are smoother. That, and years of being a frequent visitor to their home. Sometimes, he does briefly close his eyes as he heads there, just to test himself.

He's kept his eyes open the whole walk to their apartment complex, but as his mind has been elsewhere, he might as well have walked blind.

_Yet I got here_ , he thinks with a small smile, crossing the street. He nods to the security guard posted outside and gets a polite nod back. They know him by now, let him in with no issue. Some of the tenants occasionally squint at him as they try to recall where they've seen him before, and then their eyes widen – why, they've seen him here at this very building; that's Jean's friend, isn't it? Were this any other place, being recognized would have meant he was incompetent at his job. Being Jean's residency, however, it's something Nino is thankful for, maybe even a little happy, like he's part of the community, too.

_Don't be stupid_ , he chides himself as he gets in the elevator. He shifts his hold on the warm box of donuts in his hands. Up, up, up he goes, to the very top of the building, the number of floors steadily increasing.

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open soundlessly. He exits, takes a dozen or so steps, and there he is. He rings the bell and looks at the security camera, a well-worn smile on his face.

"Yes-? Oh, Nino! Hi!" says Lotta through the intercom.

"Hi, Lotta," he says. He holds up the box. "I have something for you and Jean."

"Food?! You're the best! Here, come in." The intercom buzzes off. Lotta opens the door, beaming. "I didn't expect you! Jean told me you were busy."

"I was," he says, going inside their apartment, setting the donuts down on the kitchen counter. That itself is not a lie. "Something had come up at work." Neither is that.

"Like a really important story and photos they needed immediately?"

He holds back a smile. Without thinking about it, his hands reach lightly for the camera hanging loosely off him. "You could say that." He doesn't like lying to the Otuses, instead using the subtleties of words to tell something halfway between what is true and what isn't. "I managed to finish it today, though. I felt bad about canceling lunch with Jean, so I decided to bring something now that I'm free." He points back to the box. "Donuts aren't really dinner, but I hope they'll do."

"It's _always_ a good time for donuts. Thank you!" She gets out three plates from the cupboard. "Could you get Jean? He's smoking outside. I want to eat them together."

He's only ever showed the Otuses half of himself, and even that is veiled with shadows. Yet they don't bat an eye; they welcome him entirely, making him feel like he is almost – _almost_ – who he claims to be. _I don't deserve them_ , he thinks, not for the first time.

"Sure," he says.

The balcony is in the next room over. As easily as he knows how to get to where the Otus siblings live, he knows the layout of the apartment.

He sees Jean, his back to him, sitting on a blanket and wrapped in another. Nino suddenly stops before the glass door, hand poised to open it. He takes in the scene.

Sunset approaches. The surrounding skyscrapers loom like the fingers of metal giants pointed up accusingly, casting long shadows on the city below. And perfectly in the middle of it is Jean, blond hair and striped pastel blanket lazily tousled by a breeze, spots of warmth amid the bluing sky. From this distance, the smoky trail of Jean's cigarette is barely visible, but it's there.

Over the years, Nino has perfected his sense of photography and aesthetics, learning what composes a worthy picture, and when the moment is right for one. This is one of those moments. It's not only because of who it is, but how the contrasting colors of the buildings, the sky, and Jean himself play with each other; how light and shadows blend together; how half the landscape is night, overwhelming yet natural, and half is man-made structures, purposefully intimidating, with a single person so small at its center, observing it all. It's simply a good shot. A click of the camera, and Nino has it.

He opens the door now, quietly, as to not disturb Jean, despite being tasked to ask him inside. The scene is even better outside, where he can feel the crispness of the autumn evening, hear the sounds of a city winding down. He doesn't really want to speak – it'll shatter this illusion – but he has to.

"Picturesque, huh?" he says, to announce his presence.

Jean turns his head. Around the cigarette, his lips quirk into a sincere smile. He turns back around, and Nino knows he's not being ignored, but being silently invited to sit with him. So he does, his back to Jean's.

"Did you mean that in the literal this-would-be-a-good-painting sense, or your kinds of pictures?" Jean asks. And though he's behind Nino, talking to the empty space in front of him, Nino hears him clearly.

"My kinds of pictures."

"Right." Jean leans back into him. "I don't know why I asked. You probably photographed it."

His hair tickles the part of Nino's neck not covered by his turtleneck, and the pressure of Jean against him is a solace he lets himself indulge. Nino smiles to himself, viewing the picture on his camera. "I did," he admits.

"Can I see?"

They both twist – Nino to hand the camera over, Jean to receive it. They're close, and with Nino's height, if he were to speak, his lips would skim the tip of Jean's ear. Realizing this, he turns back around, trying not do it too quickly.

"You're right," Jean says. "It does make a good picture." Jean's shoulder blades move against Nino's back as he turns to place the camera on his lap. Then his bones settle comfortably into place, like jigsaw pieces complete when they fit into Nino.

"Sorry I couldn't make it to lunch," Nino says, putting the camera strap around his neck.

"You already apologized."

"By text is more impersonal. I wanted to do it in person as well. You can really hear the sorrow in my voice this way."

Jean chuckles, and the vibrations feel so pleasant. "And I told you, then and now, it's alright. Because of your work, your schedule is kind of weird. I understand when stuff comes up, even if it's a bit disappointing." There is a tiny pause, and Nino assumes it's Jean taking a drag from his cigarette. "Since you're here already, how about you make it up to me by staying for dinner?"

His heart jumps to his throat. _I really don't deserve any of this_. "Actually," Nino says, swallowing his heart, "I brought donuts, exactly to make it up to you."

Jean hums. "Donuts for dinner. I like your thinking."

_It likes you, too_ , he thinks, on the verge of saying it, but thinks better of it. "Lotta wants us inside to eat them," he says. "She wanted me to come get you."

"You took your time with telling me," Jean teases, nudging him.

"What, you don't like talking to me?"

Jean nudges him again. "Don't be stupid. Come on, let's go." He stands; Nino follows suit. His cigarette is a dead stub, and he holds it lightly with his right hand, his left keeping his blanket close to him. Nino grabs the one they'd been sitting on without being asked, dusting it off.

"I hope you bought strawberry ones," Jean says, sliding the glass door open.

"Sadly, only half."

They share a quiet laugh as Jean steps inside, Nino right behind.

**Author's Note:**

> did yall see [this](http://www.amiami.com/top/detail/detail?gcode=GOODS-00164946&page=top%2Fsearch%2Flist%3Fs_keywords%3Dacca%24pagemax%3D40%24getcnt%3D0%24pagecnt%3D1%20) fuckin keychain bc i did, bought it immediately, and wrote this based off it


End file.
